William Boyd: A Good Man in Africa

‘Yes?’ he said, picking up the phone.

‘Mr Leafy?’

‘Yes. Speaking.’

‘First Secretary at the Commission?’

‘That’s right.’

‘This is Inspector Gbeho here. Nkongsamba police headquarters.’

‘Hello, Inspector,’ Morgan knotted his dressing-gown cord. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I phoned Mr Fanshawe at the Commission but there was no reply. You are the next senior British official in Nkongsamba according to my records.’

‘That’s correct,’ Morgan said a little impatiently. ‘What’s the trouble exactly?’

‘It’s just a routine call, sir, whenever there is a death. To pass on the information.’

‘A death?’

‘Of a British subject.’

Morgan felt his heart begin to beat faster. He took a deep breath. He shut his eyes, a tremor passing through his body.

‘I see,’ he said. ‘Who is it?’

‘A man. A Dr Murray. Dr Alexander Murray. From the university…Hello Mr Leafy. Are you still there?’

‘He’s dead?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘How…What happened?’

‘I believe he was transporting injured students to the Ade-mola clinic in the university ambulance. The ambulance skidded and crashed. From the rain on the roads. Dr Murray was killed in the crash.’

‘Anybody else?’

‘No. Some cuts and bruises. Oh yes, the driver broke his leg.’

‘Have you told Murray’s family?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Thank you for phoning, Inspector. I’ll be in touch in the morning.’

Morgan gently replaced the phone. Murray was dead. He tried to come to terms with the fact. It was hard. He walked out onto the verandah. Dead. Like Innocence. All sorts of ideas and images crowded into his mind. He covered his face with his hands.

‘Who was it, Morgan?’ Mrs Fanshawe called from the bedroom door. She had wrapped the sheet around her. ‘Was it Arthur?’

‘No. It was the police. Murray’s dead.’ He controlled his voice. ‘Dr Murray.’

‘Dead? That chap we saw tonight?’

‘Yes, that’s the one.’

‘What happened?’

‘Crash. In his ambulance of all things. Something damn bloody silly anyway.’

‘Oh…Are you coming to bed?’

‘Yes. Just give me a second.’

It was still raining, pattering softly on the roof. He stood on the edge of the verandah and looked out into the night. The thunder passed on towards the coast. The sheet lightning flashed over the jungle to the south. Shango was angry. He thought vaguely that he’d have to see Murray’s family and as he did so he felt his throat contract and thicken and tears press for a moment in his eyes. Why Murray? he asked himself in despair. A good man like that: there weren’t many of them around — Kojo, Friday, Murray. Why not Dalmire, why not Fanshawe? Why not me?

‘Morgan,’ Mrs Fanshawe called. ‘Come on, Morgan.’

He turned to go. Adekunle wouldn’t weep, for one. His land was as good as sold now. Murray wouldn’t like that at all, he thought. In fact Murray would expect him to do something about it. And perhaps he would too, now that he had nothing to lose. Perhaps. He thought about it. Innocence could get buried. Celia could have her visa. Maybe Murray deserved his fairness. But what was Morgan Leafy left with?

Very little, he answered himself. Very little. No job and no future. Mrs Fanshawe in the bedroom. And Hazel. Hazel who told him she didn’t want him to leave…but no, he wasn’t sure about Hazel.

He opened the screen door and walked slowly up the passage towards the bedroom and Chloe Fanshawe. He wondered what Murray would think of this. Not much, he was certain. Alive or dead Murray somehow managed to barge his way into his life as persistently as ever. And suddenly he didn’t want particularly to go on with it: two large white bodies heaving and grunting in an absurd parody of love.

He paused at the bedroom door. Chloe Fanshawe lay on the bed, resting on one elbow, the sheet twisted around her large body. She flung it aside.

‘Here you are at last,’ she said. ‘What kept you?’

‘Listen, Chloe,’ Morgan began haltingly. ‘I’ve been…giving things some thought, and I’m not so sure…’

♦

Outside the rain fell softly in the dark, the toads and crickets made their noises and all sorts of insects began to test and spread their wings in anticipation of the rain stopping. The riot was over, the piazza deserted, smoke wisps curled from the burnt-out cars. Elsewhere in the country units of the Kinjanjan army surrounded Government House, took over the radio and TV stations, and began arresting prominent political leaders. Innocence lay in the muddy compound of the servants’ quarters, and Murray lay on a marble slab in the Ademola morgue. The thunder passed on towards the coast and, somewhere, Shango, that mysterious and incomprehensible god, flashed and capered happily above the silent dripping jungle.

EOF